


Tangerine

by acomicaldream



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Daddy Issues, Eventual Romance, Garage Band, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, angst intensifies, but it isn't like graphic puking, emetophobia warning, eventual nasties, gogys pov, jazz hands criminals of the state, yes i have talked 2 the auth of heat waves go read hw too!, yes tangerine as in tangerine glass animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27588176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acomicaldream/pseuds/acomicaldream
Summary: “I had a really close friend in middle school and early high school that lived in England for a few years. I haven’t thought about him in a long time. When he moved away I’m not sure what happened, but I never heard from him again. We did everything together, got into a lot of trouble,” George chuckles under his breath. “He was probably my best friend.”“Shit,” Sapnap says, “I’m sorry about that dude. I know these guys probably won’t be quite the same, but I can ask them if you can come to our next practice, I’m sure they’d be okay with it. What do you say?”George gets more than he bargained for out of a midterm partnership, and he comes to realize that as hard of a pill as it is to swallow, people change.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 169
Kudos: 1235





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi there! this is...going to be the longest piece of writing i've done in a very long time.  
> the second dream & george say they don't want this content on the internet made anymore, it'll be gone forever. in case you didn't see the tag, i have spoken with the author of heat waves! we're cool, i am not copying their work, i just also have loved glass animals for years and have had the idea bouncing around in my head for a fic based off of the song tangerine. my twitter is goldenareadbhar, feel free to come say hi! i hope you enjoy <3

The clock is ticking, his professor is droning, and George would rather be anywhere else in the entire world. He has never been one to care much for the political sciences- there’s too much of a grey area, too many variables, and never one definitive right answer. His cheek sits in his palm as he halfheartedly looks out the window at the swirling leaves on the sidewalk. _That’s why I’m in STEM,_ he thinks to himself, _the whole point was to avoid classes like this._ _American politics are impossible._ It’s only about two fifteen, but it felt like at least four or five. Fall has a way of tilting the usual passage of days off kilter, but today was just dragging on forever. George simply wanted to get out of this useless class, get back to his dorm, code for an assignment he had due soon and sleep.

He pulled his phone from his back pocket and checked his notifications silently in his lap. A missed call from one of his friends back in England, and a reminder to drink water. Not like he expected there to be much more, but he was still a little disappointed.

_It’s your own fault, stupid. That’s what you get for being an introvert._

George locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket, leaning back in his seat. Surveying the room he sees that for the most part, everyone else is as disinterested in this lecture as he is. Someone towards the back is slumped over their desk, and right as he’s about to look away there’s a rattling snore. A few of his classmates giggle, and their professor calls out the student’s name- it’s something that George doesn’t quite catch, and they- he- bolts up groggily and makes a questioning noise.

“If you had a good grade in this class sleeping during lecture would be one thing, but where you’re standing as of now, I can’t say I recommend it.”

George has a moment of being holier than thou and smugly thinks about his own grade. As much as he can’t stand this class, he at least knows it’s required to graduate and acknowledges its importance to his education.

“Sorry about that,” His classmate says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away from the front of the room. He only seems somewhat bothered by the call out.

The next forty-five minutes of lecture are entirely uneventful. As the old clock in the back of the room hits three small sounds begin to pop up, soon making a chorus of shuffling as pens, laptops, and notebooks are quickly put away. George definitely doesn’t hesitate, either. A few people are already standing, milling by their seats with bags over their shoulders, but the _droning_ voice of their professor won’t stop.

“Now, I mentioned at the beginning of this class that you will be doing partner projects for your midterms,”

A collective sigh.

“…And I know we’re still a couple of weeks away, but it never hurts to start early.” There is a cheap folding table by the door, and it’s there that he sets a plastic bowl.

“On your way out grab a paper. They’re numbered, as you could’ve already guessed, and your partner will be who you match with. Before there are any questions, no, I am not willing to do trading or switching. Use this as an opportunity to make some new connections…you might just be surprised at the friends you could make. Class dismissed, and I’ll see you all again the day after tomorrow.”

George picks a cuticle anxiously as he heads to the door, joining the line of his fellow students by the exit. Once he gets to the bowl he doesn’t hesitate, plucking the first paper his fingers brush against on top of the pile. It’s when he gets into the hallway that he feels the missing hesitation.

There are friends mourning their lack of partnership, a couple girls fake crying, someone is yelling, “Where’s thirteen? Anyone have thirteen?” while waving their tiny slip in the air like a stranded sailor. He doesn’t have any desire to cooperate on something he knows he’d do better on alone, but, alas. George takes a breath, looks around once more, and unfolds his piece. Five. He tries to call out his number gently, just a couple of times, only to end up leaning against the wall looking lost. A few minutes pass and instead of an unorganized cluster now the hall is filled with mostly pairs, and George is starting to think there must have been a mistake. He wouldn’t be too surprised if there was, it may as well have been just his luck.

“Hey, what’s your number?”

George startles and looks to his right. There stands the sleeping boy looking at him expectantly, just about eye level, if not an inch or so shorter. He has just a bit of facial hair and is wearing a jean jacket, black name-brand sweatpants, and scuffed checkered shoes.

“Five,” George answers curtly. “Yours?”

“Five,” He grins, “I guess that means we’re partners. What’s your name again?”  
  
“George, yours?” There’s a small sinking feeling in his stomach. _Great, so it won’t be a team effort,_ George thinks. _It’ll be me working my ass off with this guy piggybacking the credit.  
  
_

“Sapnap. It’s nice to meet you, George. Officially, I guess. I think I remember talking to you for a sec the first day of classes.”

He raises an eyebrow. “S..Sapnap?” The word slowly falls out of his mouth, as though he’s eaten something unpleasant. That’s why he hadn’t caught it when their professor said it earlier. It sounded like gibberish. “What’s your real name?”

Without missing a beat, as though he’s had this talk many times before, Sapnap answers, “That is my name.”

That leaves an awkward lull, a moment of silence and staring. George decides not to question it further, the conversation has already gotten too uncomfortable for his liking. Luckily, the other picks up the verbal slack.

“When’s your next class? If you want to hang out I can buy lunch, it’s no trouble.”

George thinks for a moment. It might not be too bad- socializing, that is. He’d only transferred at the beginning of the fall semester, that of which was only relatively recently, and has had yet to establish a social circle. He knows it’d be good for him, he really does, but other people can be more trouble than they’re worth. They disappoint, they have expectations, they judge…and he isn’t sure about his compatibility with someone who, at first glance, appears to have zero work ethic. He’s ambitious, he knows what he wants. Can this guy say the same?

At the same time, though, the thought of having to interact with Sapnap on and off for two-some weeks without any common ground makes George’s skin crawl. The brief pause in their dialogue a minute ago made him feel gross enough.

He checks the time on his phone and resigns.

“Yeah, I’m suppose I’m free. What did you have in mind?”

*

As it turns out, Sapnap isn’t such bad company.

They sit in the underfunded cafeteria, bonding over mediocre campus food talking for longer than either likely intended to. George learns that he likes video games too and even codes some in his free time. He isn’t too shabby at it, either, for being mostly self-taught. Sapnap is a classics major, half Greek, and as one could’ve guessed, has a _terrible_ sleep schedule.

“I would’ve never guessed someone from America would care about something like that. So why did you pick classics?” George asks, picking at the small puddle of ketchup on his plate with a french fry. “You seem like you have a knack for technology. I bet you’d land a job pretty easily after graduation if you did computer science.”

“I worry that if it was all I ever did I’d get burnt out,” He answers around a mouthful of his burger. “My parents wanted me to go to school one way or another, so I figured I’d pick something easy. It’s my heritage and stuff, too, sort of. It also leaves me with lots of free time. I have a band with some of my friends, I can code, I can sleep almost whenever I want. Classics ain’t so bad.”

“A band?”

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Sapnap says, looking very pleased with himself. “We call ourselves _Criminals of the State_.” Proudly he shakes his open palms for a dramatic effect. George snorts. “That sounds like a garage band if I’ve ever heard of one.”

Sapnap, who now looks as though George said to go fuck himself, places a hand over his heart. “We’re the best ‘garage band’ ever, thank you very much. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. You haven’t even heard us play. Besides, do _you_ get to say you’re in a band?”

With a roll of his eyes, George shoves a couple of fries into his mouth. “No, I guess I can’t. I know a little bit of piano, though, if that counts for anything. Took lessons on and off when I was younger. What do you play?”  
  
“Bass. The hottest person in a band always plays the bass, don’t you know?” He laughs at the dismay on George’s face before smacking his left hand down on the table in realization. “Hey, you know what? Wilbur is from England, too! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that sooner. I bet you guys would get along great, he might help you feel less out of your element or whatever. I think he said he was from bright town?”

“Bright town…?” George mirrors, “Could you mean Brighton?”

“Yes, yes! I think that’s it. Our drummer spent a little bit of time there when he was a kid, too. That’s not quite the same thing, but it’s something, at least.”

“I had a really close American friend in middle school and early high school that lived in England for a few years. I haven’t thought about him in a long time. When he moved away I’m not sure what happened, but I never heard from him again. We did everything together, got into a lot of trouble,” George chuckles under his breath. “He was probably my best friend.”

“Shit,” Sapnap says, “I’m sorry about that dude. I know these guys probably won’t be quite the same, but I can ask them if you can come to our next practice, I’m sure they’d be okay with it. What do you say?”

George can’t help but take a moment to reel from the suddenness of his newly found friendship. Sapnap had known him less than a day and was willing to go out of his way to introduce him to his other friends in an attempt to make him feel more comfortable. It was probably the most kindness he’d received from someone else in a long time, as well as a surprisingly considerate action from someone he had initially assumed would be a pain in his ass. Guilt simmers in the back of George’s mind. Would he do that if this were the other way around?

“I don’t want you to feel obliged to do any of this,” He finally responds, _god forbid if you’re doing this out of pity._ Sapnap practically cuts him off.

“I’ll shoot our group chat a text as soon as I get back to my room,” He says definitively. “I hope you’re free tomorrow night.”

Something tells George that Sapnap isn’t going to take no for an answer. Not without a hassle, at least.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

“I think I can make it work.”

“Glad I could convince you. Hey, if Wilbur likes you he might even ask you to join. Our keyboard player quit just the other day, funny enough. He said it was creative differences, or something.” Sapnap makes quotes in the air with his fingers, his lips turning down in disappointment. “I thought that was just something they used in movies for the drama.”

George scoffs. “There’s no way I’d be able to keep up with a band. Like I said, I only knew a bit of piano. It isn’t like I kept at it for years straight…and I can only kind of read sheet music.”

“I don’t think that’s a big turn off or anything. It’s about the feeling, anyways. Even if you can read sheet music, if you don’t play with love it doesn’t matter.”

“Pretty wise words for someone that probably only knows how to play the line for _Seven Nation Army_ ,” He teases. The comment lands him a chip to the face.

“You’ll see tomorrow,” Sapnap promises, “The vibes speak for themselves.”

They talk some more about music, about growing up in such different places, about some fond childhood memories. The slate grey overcast sky begins to turn pastels of orange and purple, the thinning clouds parting with the wind as the sun begins to set. Eventually they trade phone numbers, toss their trash, and begin the trek back to the dorm buildings in the brisk autumn air. As it turns out, they both live in the same hall, just on different floors.

“I’ll be seeing you, five o’clock sharp,” Sapnap calls, walking backwards away from the elevator. “You better be ready on time!” He nearly trips, shoe skidding on the grey carpet, and George has to stifle his laughter.

“I will, I will,” He waves as the other disappears down the hallway. George presses the button with the little up arrow, only a few seconds passing from when it lights up to the elevator opening with a ding. The inside walls are made of pale wood, and a metal bar approximately hip high runs around the sides. The light faintly flickers as George climbs up the floors, just another looming reminder of where the school’s budget _definitely_ doesn’t go. The small security camera in the front right corner of the ceiling stares back at him, and if he squints, he can see a distorted version of his reflection.

For one reason or another, seeing himself here, right now, unsettles him.

The door opens with the same ding as before, and George jumps. Three people trickle into the elevator as he slides out, flushing and hoping they didn’t notice. Quickly he walks straight past nine doors, left past six, and on the seventh he tugs his keys out from his backpack.

“Home sweet home,” He says to himself, opening the door to the room he shares with no one.

It’s quiet, just how he likes it, and as expected, everything is just as he left it in the morning. His navy blue sheets are tussled and crinkled, highlighters scattered about his desk among a couple of open textbooks. A pile of dirty laundry sits by the bathroom door. The plastic blinds that shelter him from light were drawn open, for once, bathing the dorm in a warm glow. George drops his bag by the foot of his bed and rests his hands on the windowsill, looking at the city below from the tenth floor. Everything is still, and there’s a feeling in his gut that says to take a mental snapshot of this moment. If he was asked why, he wasn’t sure how he would answer.

Once the feeling subsides, George goes about his evening just as he had daydreamed about in class. Hunched up in his desk chair, sitting in boxers and a t-shirt, he finishes his upcoming coding assignment and proceeds to get started on his next one. Time flies by without his acknowledgement and once he starts to yawn, his phone says it’s midnight. His room is dark, solely illuminated by the light of his monitor, blinds now shut and blocking out the full moon.

He allows one more hour to tick by before deciding to get into bed. As George shuts off his computer he pats it, feeling its warmth, praising it for a job well done. By muscle memory he makes his way into his bed in the dark, groping around the blankets for his phone charger and plugging it in. An unseen message lights up his screen.

_Sapnap??? Polsci:_

_im glad we got paired together, youre pretty cool_

_quiet and kind of mysterious but cool_

_see u tomorrow, prepare yourself >:)_

George isn’t quite sure how to respond, so he leaves it, resolving to answer in the morning and say he was already asleep. He double checks that his alarm for the morning is set, stuffs his phone under his pillow, and shuts his eyes.

He doesn’t sleep for shit.

When morning eventually, painstakingly arrives, George is left awake before his alarm even has the chance to drag him from slumber. He’s sprawled out in his small bed, sheets tangled around his leg, pillow on the floor. Regrettably, he forces himself up to use the bathroom, and as he’s washing his hands afterwards a forlorn feeling settles within him. It must have been a dream he had in the few moments of sleep he _did_ get, he decides, but he can’t remember a thing about it. George crawls back into bed in an effort to get at least an hour of sleep, but the next time he opens his eyes, it’s four thirty p.m..

“Oh, _fuck,”_ He groans, dragging his hands down his face. Being the overachieving student he was George wasn’t too worried about accidentally missing class, but it was the principle of it that bothered him. Staggering out of bed for the second time that day he quickly turns on his computer, emailing his professors and apologizing for his absence. Once that’s taken care of he starts working on being more presentable; brushes his teeth, splashes some water on his face, gets dressed. In perfect tandem to George throwing his sweatshirt on there’s a knock at the door. He grabs his keys, then turns the handle.  
  
“Hey mamas,” Sapnap says coyly, leaning in the doorframe, spinning his own lanyard around a pointed finger. “You ready for the best musical experience of your life?”

*

The drive to Wilbur’s house was only about fifteen minutes, but bantering with Sapnap made the drive go by faster. George’s comments were primarily about the state of the other’s car- on one hand he only had so much room to talk, he didn’t even have his own license, but on the other, the damn thing felt like it was ready to fall apart each time Sapnap hit the gas.

“It adds character,” He huffed, “Don’t talk about my baby like that.”  
  
“I thought your bass was your baby?”  
  
“I can have more than one baby, and I love them both, thank you very much.”

Sapnap accelerates as the stop light turns green and George holds on to his door.

“We’re almost there, you’re fine. She hasn’t given out on me yet.”  
  
Thankfully, they only had to go a couple more blocks before pulling into the driveway of a quaint beige and white one-story. Next to them was another car, but the second one was parked on the curb. As Sapnap and George hopped out and got ready to go inside, the former almost read George’s mind.

“Our drummer lives here too, they’re roommates. Wilbur does have a job, but it isn’t so good that he can rent on his own.” George nods, and Sapnap opens the front door like he may as well live there, too.

Music fills the living room. It could be faintly heard from outside as well, but it’s a fair margin louder inside. Feeling very out of his element George more or less tiptoes around, taking in the organized clutter of the house as he’s lead towards the garage. Drums, guitar, and only lyrics he can somewhat understand fill his ears. As they reach the garage door it becomes incredibly loud, the last bits of muffled air being broken apart like glass as Sapnap opens it.

“You guys started without me, huh?” He announces his entrance, and the noise dies down, feedback from an amp and the faint ringing of symbols hanging in the air.

“You took too long,” A voice answers.

“We’re hardly five minutes over, please,” Sapnap quips back. “Hey, George, get in here.”

George obeys, slowly stepping into the garage. The male at the mic immediately goes into George’s periphery as his eyes follow the tangles of cords on the floor to the drums, and then, the person sitting behind them.

He’s well built, skin slightly tanned, freckles across his cheeks. In the sub-par lighting of the garage his hair looks brown, and George’s eyes are met with green ones, staring right through him. His breath catches in his throat, and Sapnap clears his. He had been trying to talk, but George couldn’t hear.

Familiarity rises from his core, into his throat, flaring out in surprise on his own pale face. He feels about half ready to choke, and his fingers begin to tremble. The amp feedback rings in his ears.

“George? George, hey, are you in there?” Sapnap tries.

“George,” The drummer says, lacking the harassing tone he had when addressing Sapnap. It’s earnest, shocked, relieved, and something else George can't quite place.

“Clay,” He answers, the name slipping out of him as if he were dying and it were his last breath. “It’s really you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! come get yalls juice >:)  
> im so incredibly grateful for the love. I've said it a dozen times on twt already, but I am so, SO SO thankful and honored that my first born fic has gotten this attention.  
> as usual, the second dream & george say they want ship content gone, this will be wiped from the internet. I am shipping their personas, and though I am using dream's real name (for now, its a plot thing), I am not shipping their real life mortal bodies.  
> comments/kudos/follows on twt are appreciated! my @ is goldenareadbhar. enjoy chapter two!!
> 
> p.s. the song criminals of the state play is called leave me alone by idkhbtfm. I highly suggest u listen while u read :)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=85Z3iwpFQeg

A silence now fills the garage that feels utterly stifling. Sapnap and someone who George assumes must be Wilbur are looking at each other, looking at George, looking at the drummer.

The drummer, who George would recognize anywhere, who he would recognize old and frail just as well as young and full of sunshine. Snowball fights in the winter, poor handwriting scrawled onto notes passed to and fro in class, teasing, chasing, crying. Memories flash too quickly for him to think.

“Where’s your bathroom?” He chokes out, taking a couple steps back and nearly eating asphalt over a cord.

“Down the hall, first door on your right,” Wilbur answers carefully.

“Thanks.”

With that, George turns on his heel and briskly goes back inside the house. He hurries to the restroom, so distracted that he nearly steps on the small toes of a cat. It meows up at him quizzically, golden eyes surprised, leaping away with a flourish of white and brown fur as he tries to move past it. “Sorry, sorry,” He mumbles, proceeding to accidentally slam the bathroom door on his way in. The poor cat probably didn’t like that very much, a stranger in its house, and a loud one at that. He wouldn’t either.

Pacing back and forth, George tries to tie all of his thoughts together. He considers himself to be quick on his feet, but this… _this_ is a situation he never thought he would find himself in. None of the wires in his brain are connected, and with a frustrated hiss he takes his short hair in his hands and tugs. Rolling up one of the sleeves of his grey sweatshirt George pinches up his arm, angry red marks blooming along his skin. He’s still partially convinced that this is a dream even when a gentle knocking comes from outside the bathroom.

“Hey, uh, George? You okay in there?”

The concerned voice of Sapnap calls through the wood.

Oh, how he wishes he could time travel back to yesterday morning and _smack himself upside the damn head._ If not that, then at the very least, pick a different number from the stupid bowl in his _stupid_ political science class. This is what he gets for trying to be social. Of course.

For years George has spent night after night thinking about what he’d do if the day ever came where he saw Clay again. This, though? This really took the cake. He probably-, no, definitely, just made a fool of himself in front of the person who used to be his best friend. For a brief moment George contemplates attempting to fit through the tiny window up near the top of the far wall. It looked pretty fragile, the framing splintered with its paint chipping, he could probably-

“George, I’m coming in.”

His lip curls and he furrows his brows in panic at the intrusion. At least Sapnap is nice enough to close the door behind him.

So there they stood, not nearly enough space for a shower, toilet, sink, and two grown men, what once was likely a cool toned LED light above them now a sad shade of apricot. George never considered himself to be claustrophobic, and even though Sapnap was a bit shorter, he felt like he was being fenced in.

“That’s him,” George says without thinking.

“Do I get any more information that that? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. And how did you know is name is-“

“My friend from America. It’s him. I mentioned it in the cafeteria yesterday.”

Behind Sapnap’s brown eyes the gears of his brain are turning, and in quick remembrance, his mouth pops into an ‘o’. He slowly blinks once, eyes wide open.

“I don’t even think I can remember the last time I heard someone call him Clay.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I met him he introduced himself as Dream. Wilbur, too. It was only after several months that he told me what was on his birth certificate,” With a fond little snort Sapnap leans against the sink countertop, putting his hands in his pockets. Something about his relaxed posture makes George feel a little more at ease.

“He’ll always be Clay to me,” George says softly, almost inaudible, sitting on the closed toilet lid. He notices that they’re down to their last few squares of toilet paper.

“Is there…anything I can do to help here?” Sapnap tries, looking at the door for a moment before shifting his gaze back onto George, who gives a very heavy sigh. Bless his heart. George likes to think that he’s adequate, at the very least, at reading others, and Sapnap is someone who appears to be genuinely kind. Kind not to receive anything from doing so- solely for being selfless.

“I’m not sure, I don’t even know what _I_ should do. It’s been so long, I don’t- what to talk about, what I should say, it’s too late to pretend I don’t recognize him and start over,” A dry laugh bounces out of him. “Fuck. Shit.”

_Poor Sapnap,_ He thinks, _I don’t think this is what he bargained for when he asked me to lunch. Let alone Wilbur, that guy probably thinks I’m absolutely insane. His first impression of me is…whatever the hell that was._

Hot, seething guilt fills George. Resting his elbows on his knees, he allows his head to fall into his hands.

“Well…the situation has already had its band-aid ripped off, if that makes sense,” Sapnap starts, slowly choosing his words. He’s quick to quip back when faced with teasing and giving other people a hard time, but George can tell verbal consolation is out of his element. He’s wading through murky water, but George really appreciates the effort.

“The worst of it is already over.”

“I beg to differ, I don’t even want to think about having to talk to him now after I’ve gone and presented myself as mental.”

“Hey, shut up. I’m talking here. And if you guys were that close, I’m sure he’s in the garage freaking out too. Hell, even if he isn’t, I don’t think he’d be judging you for it. I’ll smack him if he does.”

“Thank you,” George laughs, “But you’re closer to him than you are me, that just wouldn’t be fair.”  
  
“Sure it would. He would be earning it for being a dick.” There’s no hesitation.

He takes a step over and pats George’s shoulder somewhat akin to an estranged dad. “Let’s go back. You can chill on the couch in there and listen to us practice. Music might help you think, and you can worry about talking to him afterwards. C’mon.”

It is with great hesitance as well as enormous effort that George rises and follows Sapnap back out of the bathroom. Going back through the unfamiliar living space a second time, George pays more attention to his surroundings.

The walls are white, and the floors are carpeted in a dark grey that breaks into square tiles at the kitchen. As they’re passing through, George can tell that whatever the design on the tiles is, it’s unintelligible, old, and for lack of a better word, ugly. There’s a bar counter that juts out from one of the walls, dotted with a few liquor bottles as well as various music books for different instruments. Their corners are bent and well-loved, and among those, a lone bag of tortillas. Back in the living room there’s a very pricey looking television connected to a few game consoles, a black couch that could’ve very well come from the Goodwill, and two ceiling high cat trees. One of them looked just like a kitty-scale castle.

_Interesting budgeting._

The cat George resolved to properly apologize to at some point was nowhere to be found, likely hiding in one of the bedrooms that still loomed in secrecy. One of which was Clay’s, that most definitely has changed since he was younger when George had last been privy to its appearance. He wondered what it looked like now.

Sapnap looks at George before reopening the garage door, and quietly says, “It’ll be alright dude. It’ll work out.” Which was a kind vote of confidence up until he turned the handle. Then George felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach.

Wilbur is conversing with Clay by the set of drums, the latter still seated behind them. Upon their entrance, though, Wilbur closes the distance between them. There’s the newfound claustrophobia George didn’t know he had until today, rearing its ugly head once more. He has to look up to talk to Wilbur. Good lord, he’s _tall._

“You must be George,” He offers a smile, clearly pretending their earlier interaction never happened. “I’m Wilbur. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” George clears his throat.

“I would introduce you to Dream here, but it would…appear you already know each other.” Wilbur glances to Sapnap, and they have a silent exchange that goes over George’s head. Clay remains silent, fiddling with his drumsticks.

A brisk slap lands itself on the center of George’s back that nearly sends him face first into the ground. “Go on, make yourself comfortable,” Sapnap urges, steering him by the shoulders to the maroon two-seater couch. He then goes to grab his bass guitar from a black case leaning against the wall, kissing the neck as he does so. “I’m so sorry I forgot you here sweet angel,” Sapnap says lovingly. “I’m never leaving you alone again.” He double checks that it’s tuned, gives a thumbs up, and Wilbur steps up to the mic.

“Welcome, audience. We’re Criminals of the State, and we hope you have a good time tonight. This one is called _Leave Me Alone._ ”

Right off the bat George can tell they have excellent chemistry. Each one of them knows their part, and he would never guess that there was a keyboard missing unless Sapnap had told them about their lost member. His bass is at maximum volume, but it doesn’t overshadow the other two in the slightest.

“ _Big shot, so what? Do you wanna pretend? You took the money, but the money couldn’t buy a friend,_ ”

George hopes that Clay is too occupied to notice him staring. His hair has definitely gotten longer, curling around his pierced ears and the back of his neck. His jawline is strong, and as he moves with the beat his muscles flex. No more is the lanky, acne prone teenager that still lived in George’s memories.

“ _Now I want you to leave me alone, they say the devil that you know is better than the devil that you don’t,  
Oh, you’re a big shot here but nobody else knows,_

 _Now I want you to leave me alone._ ”

Sapnap’s bass is a warm auburn towards the center of its body that bleeds into a rich, deep brown. He bounces around as he plays, a grin spread across his face. Wilbur is more stationary, somehow managing to play his olive green and black guitar while singing. George can’t wrap his head around the coordination that it must take to do both at once. And at the center of it all are Clay’s drums, colored as dark as the night sky. Intermittently he spins the wooden sticks with ease, hitting the instrument with vigor.

“ _Blind spot, take your best shot, lucky me,  
Go fly a kite until you’re tangled in the hanging tree,_”

George is positive the neighbors aren’t too excited with the volume of their practice. He, for one, can feel his teeth vibrate to the rhythm, thankful that it’s at least helping him ignore the rapid pounding of his heart in his ribcage. It feels like a bird flying head-on against a glass window, desperately trying to escape.

“ _Now I want you to leave me alone, they say the devil that you know is better than the devil that you don’t,  
Oh, you’re a big shot here but nobody else knows,_

 _Now I want you to leave me alone._ ”

He finds himself torn between wanting practice to be over as soon as possible and wanting to sit on this uncomfortable couch forever, to sink in between the cushions and never come back out.

Not because the music is just that good; but because he somehow knows deep down that whatever happens after this, his life is going to be completely different.

*

Forty-five minutes or so later the set ends. There were a couple of cover songs, a few originals, but all around George was very impressed. He clapped as Wilbur bowed with flair, all of them looking worn out.

“Thank you, thank you, you were a lovely audience.” He takes a long drink from a plastic water bottle, sweeping his bangs away from his eyes. Sapnap moves towards the back of the garage to speak with Clay, and George is surprised to see Wilbur approaching him instead. “Mind if I sit?”

“It is your couch, after all. I don’t think it’d make much sense for me to say no.” George scoots over to make more room, and Wilbur places himself on the other cushion. “Sorry. That sounded ruder than I intended it to be.”  
  
“No, it’s alright. Did you like the set?”

“Yeah, actually. Not gonna lie, Sapnap had me a little worried about how good you guys would be.”

“I’ll make sure to keep him away from advertising, then,” Wilbur smiles. “So, you don’t have to go into heavy detail by any means…but could I ask what’s going on with you and Dream?”

_C’mon George, open up. You can do it. That’s how you’re supposed to make friends._

“It’s, uh...it’s a long story. We used to be close several years ago. He lived in England at the time, moved away suddenly, and I haven’t seen him since. Up until an hour ago, that is.”

Wilbur nods thoughtfully. “I can see how this would be very jarring.”

“You have no idea,” George groans.

“Would you like to stay for dinner? It wouldn’t be a bother at all, and having a couple other people around might help you break the ice. Any friend of Sapnap’s is a friend of mine.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, George considers the offer.

  
“…If you’re sure it’s not going to be too much trouble I suppose I’ll stay. That’s very kind of you.” He can’t help but continue to take glances at Clay, and he can hear Sapnap scolding him for not paying attention to whatever it is that he’s saying.

“Great. I’ll go order us a pizza.”

And with that Wilbur rises, dialing a number on his phone from memory before going back inside to presumably find his wallet.

George’s chest tightens considerably as he now sees Sapnap shoo Clay away from his drum set, planting himself in the seat. The latter lingers for a moment, scratches the back of his head, then walks towards George.

“Hey,” Clay starts. “It’s been a while.”

“A few years.”

“Quite a few.”

‘Yeah.”

The interaction is so painful George would rather shoot himself in the foot. At least Sapnap is poorly playing the drums in the background in order to get rid of some of the tension. Quiet would be worse. So, so much worse.

Nonetheless, George feels ready to be sick.

Similarly to Wilbur, Clay asks if he can sit. Upon George’s consent he does, but in a rigid way that makes him look like a marble statue. His shoulders are tense, and he has his hands clasped together in his lap.

“I didn’t think you’d stick with the drums. You were okay at them when we were younger, but it took a lot of practice and you were getting pretty sick of not being immediately good at them.”

“They ended up being a pretty good distraction. Once I wasn’t forced to play all the time in band it got a lot easier, too. You still do any piano?”

“I’ve been too busy with school to try picking it up again.”

“That’s a shame, you had a knack for it.”

Clay absentmindedly checks his phone.

“It’s…it’s good to see you again,” George says in earnest. “I never thought I would.”

He hesitates to bring up Clay’s very abrupt disappearance from his life. _There must have been a good reason for it_ , he thinks, but more than anything it feels like he’s trying to convince himself. George doesn’t want the conversation to shut down by dragging in such a heavy topic so soon; there will be a time and a place to discuss it eventually. At least, he hopes there will be.

Sapnap fumbles and manages to knock one of the symbols with his elbow, causing the both of them to jump.

“Sorry, sorry!”

“You better not break anything back there or it’ll be the last time you see this garage,” Clay warns, “Or the light of day, for that matter.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Sapnap says, pointing a drumstick at Clay.

“Both.”

George snickers.

“What’s so funny?”  
  
“Oh, nothing. Like I said, it’s just good to see you again.”

For a brief moment, Clay relaxes, the corners of his mouth allowing a small smile.

“It’s good to see you too.”

*

“You guys really need a coffee table,” Sapnap says before ripping off a bite of pizza. “This is a little ridiculous.”

He and George are sat on the floor of the living room while Wilbur and Clay are on the tattered secondhand couch. A warm box of pizza sits in the middle of them all like an offering.

“We could probably use the bar ledge if _someone_ would clean up all their music stuff,” Clay sends a look to Wilbur, who takes a sip of his bitterly sweet box wine with a light shrug.

“I’ll clean that up once you remember to stop flushing while I’m in the shower.”

As George watches them banter, he becomes acutely more aware of how out of place he is. Not only that, but how close the other two have gotten to Clay in his absence.

He forces himself to swallow down the twinges of jealousy that begin to crop up. Almost as if he could feel George’s discomfort, Wilbur turns everyone’s attention towards him instead.

“George, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself? Me and Sapnap don’t know much about you, and you and Dream have a lot to catch up on. What brings you to this neck of the woods, anyhow?”

He adjusts himself to sit cross legged. “Well, the computer science program here is actually pretty good. I got a full ride, so here I am. I wasn’t expecting the rest of the school to be-“  
  
“Really shitty?” Sapnap pipes up.

“You could say that. The pictures online don’t uh, live up to real life.”

“Mm, I was tricked too. The music department is good, but I knew I had to live off campus when the elevator to my dorm broke with me in it and my room flooded within the same week.”

“Oh god, that sounds horrible,” George winces.

“I can’t say it was one of the highlights of my college experience,” Wilbur reaches down to grab a slice. “At least I could sleep at night, generally speaking. Dream had the worst roommate before he moved in with me.”

Clay rubs his temples as he recalls the memory. “And whoever lived above me would play country music at seven each morning. I swear the whole floor could hear it.”

“I was worried about being stuck with a bad roommate so I applied for my own room. I figured I might as well since it’s being paid for.”

“George, you lucky bastard,” Clay laments, “Enjoy it and pray that you can get a single room again next semester. Sometimes I still get flashbacks.”

Sapnap interjects again, “We could be roomies! I think I’d be a great choice. It’d be fun.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, demon.”

“You’re such a jerk Clay,” He says with a whine, “that’s not a very nice impression to be leaving on George.”

_I don’t think anyone could do worse than me running away to the bathroom earlier._

Before Clay can give a proper response, he looks past George and smiles.

“I think you’re being stalked.”

Confused, George turns around to find the same cat from earlier mid-step, freezing as he acknowledges its presence.

“Her name is Patches. She’ll warm up to you, don’t worry.”

With those words came the promise of George being here again, long enough to earn the trust of a cat- George knows that that is no small feat. Whether Clay meant it like that or not, for the first time in the last couple of hours, George’s chest felt fuzzy instead of tight.

Patches opens her mouth and gives a drawn, squeaky meow. He tries to extend a hand cautiously, but she bounds away down the hall.

“How long have you had her for?”

“About a year now. I rescued her from the shelter.”

Wilbur’s eyes follow her as she disappears. “She makes me feel guilty whenever I play anything inside the house, especially the acoustic guitar. She hates that thing.”

“Maybe if you sounded better she’d stick around,” Sapnap snickers, earning a kick in the side from Wilbur.

George turns to glance at Clay only to find that he’s being stared at. As soon as their eyes meet, Clay looks away.

*

Slamming the door to Sapnap’s 2002 Nissan Pathfinder closed, George bangs his head against the dashboard.

“Woah, woah, are you okay? You’re gonna hurt yourself, settle down!”

“Just checking one more time to make sure I’m not asleep. It’s also my punishment for being a dumbass.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, George. Especially not while I’m about to start driving.” He says as he turns the key in the ignition.

“I guess it could’ve gone worse,” He mumbles bitterly, “But it could’ve gone a hell of a lot better, too.”

“I think you did just fine. I can’t say what I would’ve done if it were me, but I can almost guarantee I would’ve handled it a whole lot worse.”

They peel out of the driveway, and George goes silent. The drive back to the college seems a lot longer than it did on the way over, with Sapnap trying to initiate conversation, but George is too lost in his head to contribute much. When they finally get to the parking lot of their dorm, he tries to open the door, but it remains locked.

“Hey, let me know if you need anything. For serious. I have to run to the gas station so I’ll let you off here, but…yeah.”

“Thank you, Sapnap. I mean it. I’m sorry that I pulled you into this.”

“It’s not your fault, there’s no way you could’ve known about Dream. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Goodnight,” George says, making sure he’s got his phone and keys. Sapnap unlocks the car, and out he goes.

Through the dorm he feels as though he’s in limbo, wandering through the fields of Asphodel. Autopilot takes him to the elevator, down the hall, and to his room; his room that now feels too quiet.

George tries to work on homework, but he’s left incredibly unsatisfied with the way everything is turning out. _At least I’m ahead so I don’t have to worry too much,_ he pats himself on the back, eventually caving and shutting off his computer. He regrets not taking his jeans off sooner, they’re fitting in all the wrong places and he hurriedly kicks them off. He finally looks at his phone, squinting at the bright screen in the darkness.

It’s two in the morning.

“ _Mother-_ what the hell?”

The sun had already set by the time he and Sapnap left band practice, but George had assumed it was still early enough because it was fall. Apollo turned off the lights at what, four thirty?

_How long was I there for?_

Right before his very eyes a message from and unknown number appears on his screen. Then another, then another.

_UNKOWN:_

_g_

_goeg_

_gogy_

_goggy_

_i missed u so mcuh_

_cme back soon ok,??_

_im ised you_

_George :]:_

_clay??_

_how did you get my number?_

_are you drunk?_

_UNKOWN:_

_myna me is dream :( ((_

_is me_

_only a lttle bti to drink_

_sap gave me ur nunmber_

_i misedd you so much gogyyy so mcuh_

_George :]:_

_yep youre drunk_

George types out another message before deleting it, deciding not to send. The words he sees are ones he’s longed to hear for years, but even if drunk words are sober thoughts, they’re just making him sad.

_Clay:_

_kiiiiiiiiind of_

_i ahd to tell u that ii missed u so mcu_

_ive beens so ssad whtout u_

_George :]:_

_go to bed, youre going to have the worst hangover tomorrow_

_dont do anything to embarrass yourself_

Not sure how to respond other than that in fear of what Clay would see tomorrow, George gets into bed himself. As he tosses and turns, a memory of the two of them from their freshman year of high school floats to the front of his mind. In it, Clay was proclaiming red with fury that he would never touch alcohol in his life.

Words can no longer describe how his chest aches.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took me so long to get out! as more plot stuff comes up, expect one to two weeks per chapter. I have stuff going on irl too, but I'm doing my best!! this one's a little dialogue heavy but I hope its still enjoyable. thank you for all the support!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> DO NOT PROMOTE THIS FIC TO THE CC'S.   
> the second they want ship content gone, this will be wiped from the internet. I am shipping their personas, not /them/.
> 
> see u guys in the next chap! prepare for a bit of a time skip, but once midterms are over stuff is gonna get fun ;)

Sitting in class, déjà vu weighs heavy on George’s shoulders. From the agonizing repetition of his political science professor to Sapnap once again falling asleep, it’s a little bit unnerving. If it weren’t for Clay’s drunk texts to look at for proof, it’d be easy for him to believe that yesterday only existed in his dreams.

George hasn’t received anything else from him. Naturally, this makes him anxious, but he does his best to remind himself that the poor thing has a horrendous hangover and may very well be sleeping it off…or something. Avoiding George may be part of it, too, but he hopes that isn’t the case. Unsure of how to navigate at this point he resolves to wait until he can ask Sapnap for advice before adding anything else to their ‘conversation’.

As their lecture draws to a close George begins to worry Sapnap may be hungover as well. He doesn’t even flinch as everyone packs up and filters out of the room. Very gently he places a hand on Sapnap’s shoulder blade, lightly pushing him.

“Hey, Sapnap, class is over. We’ve gotta get going.”

He grumbles something into his sleeve and tries to move away from George’s prying hand. The thought crosses his mind to potentially whack him with a ruler.

“Please, I’m not your mother. Don’t make me do this. We’ve gotta go.”

One bleary, half-open brown eye peers up at him.

“Good morning.”

“G’morning,” Sapnap yawns, a few of his joints popping as he sits up and stretches. A small puddle of drool lingers on the scratched-up table. He’s very clearly not in any hurry to get going, leaving his backpack half unzipped as he grabs it and tucks his red notebook under his arm. It hardly looks like he even brushed his hair before leaving his room and that he was just shy of forgetting to tie both his shoes.  
  


“You look absolutely exhausted, when did you get to sleep last night?”

“Oh, y’know. I didn’t.”

“At all? Not a single bit?” George says in disbelief, watching as Sapnap shuffles along sleepily down the hallway.

“Nope. I was back at Wilbur and Dream’s place the whole night. He got shitfaced and we had to hold his hair back and try to make sure he didn’t do anything he shouldn’t have been doing. It’s amazing that he didn’t pass out.”

“Jesus…that bad, huh?”

“Yep. We had to try to wrangle him for the better part of twenty minutes trying to make sure he didn’t drunk text you, but he managed to get into the bathroom and lock himself in. He was-“

Something makes Sapnap hold his tongue, and he shakes his head. “Nevermind. It was really something, though. Really an event.” He holds one of the metal double doors in front of them open for George, and a gust of wind immediately bites though his clothing as they walk outside. It sends a harsh shiver crawling up his spine, and Sapnap looks absolutely miserable.

“I miss Texas.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“Moved up here so I could go to the same school as Dream. We met online a couple years ago but we hit it off right away, and I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with myself. I told you at lunch, my parents wanted to make sure I went to college one way or another, so here I am. He convinced me.”

He grimaces. “But nights like last night make me question it sometimes. And also the weather. I bet it’s at least eighty degrees in Houston right now.”

“I think that’s way too hot. I’d rather be cold.”

Sapnap snorts. “You’re wrong, but I fuck with you for trying.”

“You can only get so naked to try and avoid the heat.”

“I don’t want to think about you naked.”

“Then why are you talking about it?”

“You wish I’d think about you naked,” Sapnap’s voice drops a bit, and he speaks with the cockiness of someone who has mastered the elusive art of confidence.

George sputters and feels his cheeks flush. “No, no I do not. Don’t flatter yourself.”

There’s a vibration in his pocket, and he pulls out his phone. Sapnap had opened his mouth to torment George further, but upon seeing his expression fall he hesitates.

_Clay:_

_sorry you had to see that_

_that was probably really weird for you_

_can we pretend that never happened lol_

George’s fingers hover over his keyboard, and though he isn’t looking, he can feel Sapnap watching him intently.

_George :]:_

_its fine, don’t worry about it_

He audibly sighs.

It’s really not fine, arguably one of the furthest things from, but it’s not his place to go off on someone he hasn’t seen for years on their drinking habits. Similarly to his avoidance on the topic of Clay’s disappearance, he doesn’t want to shut off communication by making a segue into something too serious. He may be looking too far into it, but George has a feeling Clay’s binge drinking session was because of him.

“Everything okay?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you have any, um… ideas on what I should do now. About Clay, I mean. He just texted me and said sorry for last night, but I was planning on waiting to talk to you before I tried to talk to him again. Sorry if that puts you on the spot, but…” George kind of grinds his teeth. “I trust you. As much as I can someone I met not too long ago, but you’ve done nothing except help me so far.”

Sapnap grins, dragging him into a clumsy half-hug. Maybe it oversteps his boundaries- ju-uust a little- but he allows it to happen. Sapnap’s body is warm anyways, and even though England gets its fair share of winters, George allows the gesture to soothingly stoke the embers in his heart. He isn’t quite sure when he’d last felt the compassion of a gesture like this.

In a singsong voice he goes “Gogy trusts me, Gogy trusts me,”; it’s a very quick turnaround from his previously exhausted trudging on the cold sidewalk. He only releases the older of the two after ruffling his hair with the familiarity of a sibling. George, the introvert, the computer science major, the Scorpio, feels as though he has been scooped up by a tornado.

“For advice, though, I’m not entirely sure what to say. I’m glad that you’re coming to me about it, but I don’t want to blow smoke up your ass.”

“That’s respectable, I appreciate it,” George says as he begins to fix his hair.

“In my humble opinion I guess let whatever happens, happen. You can keep coming to practice with me and go from there, text him whenever it feels natural. Try not to force anything.”

“I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve texted him so far and it feels like pulling teeth.”

“Well, he was plastered for a good chunk of it.”

“Maybe I should try that before texting him anymore, too.”

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you don’t seem like you’ve ever had an alcoholic beverage. Ever.”

“Sure I have, I’ve never been _really_ belligerently messed up though.”

“Mm, if you’re interested on having a true drunk college experience we’re planning on having a party after midterms.”

“We’ll see.”

Clay haunts George thoroughly for the rest of the day. At a stalemate, their texts echo in his mind like creaks and groans in a decrepit, old house. If he closes his eyes he can imagine being somewhere that looks like the set of a horror movie, smacking his flashlight on his palm to get a little more light. Clay is a fucking _poltergeist;_ the cabinets are swinging open, plates and cups are breaking, he’s being dragged from his bed as he sleeps. George could even probably argue demon, if he was asked.

Any of the potential excitement he’s been feeling on and off for a day now ebbs away with anxiety; it’s all gone. Small grains of anger keep his jaw clenched tightly as he types, deletes, types, deletes. The messages bounce between _I hate you for leaving without a trace_ and echoes of _I missed you so much, too._ Occasionally he considers leaving something dumb, i.e. _look at this picture of a dog that’s really grainy and poorly taken._ For all the time he spends struggling, though, George never sees the other-person-is-typing-bubble once.

He wasted away in his transfer English course and has now been swimming in his own head for hours. He can currently pinpoint two primary feelings: sadness and annoyance. They fight to be in charge, and several times he smacks his forehead against his desk, just below his keyboard. George is very much over this tepid re-introductory phase. For sadness, in always thinking they would be able to pick right back up where they left off. In bitterness, for the same reason.

Meticulously, one letter painstakingly at a time, he types once more.

_George :]:_

_we should hang out sometime soon_

_just the two of us|_

Taking a deep breath, George finally sends it. It only takes a few seconds for him to regret the decision, and he quickly launches his phone across the room onto his bed. It definitely could’ve missed its mark and shattered, but he can’t say that he would be too terribly upset about it. With a broken phone he could have gone off the grid and ran away to live in the woods, never to worry about Clay again.

His phone beeps.

Almost instantly George’s heart begins to pound, nearly painfully. Scrabbling to check the notification, immense disappointment floods over him. It’s only Sapnap.

_Sapnap??? Polsci:_

_hope ur doing a little better tonight_

_remember if you ever need me to punch dream i will :)_

_:*_

_and we have practice tomorrow! ill be there 2 get you at 6 this time_

_George :]:_

_ill be ready, and thanks for checking in. i appreciate it_

_*_

Unsurprisingly, Sapnap likes to play his music as loud as his poor car can take it.

George was surprised with his politeness in keeping the atmosphere quiet their last few rides; part of him had a feeling this was coming. The rear-view mirror is vibrating, and unknown pieces of the car are rattling. When they arrive at Wilbur’s, muscle memory from a day or so prior takes George to the garage close behind Sapnap. Immediately he notices something, rather, someone, is missing.

Wilbur is seated on the couch gently strumming an acoustic guitar.

“Glad at least one of you decided to come to practice.”

“Dream lives here, how is he not-?”

“He said he had something else to do, he’s been gone a few hours.”

A subtly not-so-subtle look is flashed at George. He can’t quite gauge Wilbur’s hostility, but there was definitely blame.

“Well that’s shit. Our gig is coming up and that loser is skipping.”

George is about to open his mouth to ask for the information on their concert, but Sapnap is too quick.

“There’s a little bar downtown called The Gaslight. We’re playing the day after midterms are over for all of us, then that night is our party…as you can gather with your smart George brain, that’s not that far off.”

He walks over to the drum set and smacks one of the middle heads.

As a stillness hangs over the three for a moment, George feels a skip of fear up his spine. Wilbur looks like a parent who’s sitting in the dark, waiting for their child who had snuck out to return in order to rip them apart. Clay probably doesn’t know what’s going to hit him.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea- let’s get George started on the keyboard.”

“I- you want me to _what?”_

Wilbur stands and begins to search, presumably for the aforementioned keyboard. He speaks very bluntly as he brushes some light dust off, setting up the stand.

“We can all probably deduce that Dream is skipping because of George showing up, avoiding their awkward rekindling. This is how you can pay us back. Who knows if he’ll do this again? So here’s a long term repayment and solution.” Wilbur grins and places his hands on his hips. Sapnap is chuckling to himself in the background.

“Show us what you’ve got.”

“And you’re not gonna help me here, Sapnap?”

“Nope. Not this time.”

George begrudgingly plays _Hot Cross Buns_. Wilbur is unimpressed.

“Can you read sheet music?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, swiping up a roughed up plastic folder from between the couch cushions. The stand seems to be missing a place to put sheet music, so Wilbur holds the page up. The title reads _Tangerine,_ and George picks his way through the bars. He doesn’t think it’s too shabby, all things considered. It appeared that the piece currently had no lyrics and was surely unfinished, but it had a good, somewhat sad ring to it all the same.

“With a tender-loving music major hand I think you could serve us well, George. And I think I’m the music major to do it. What do you think, Sapnap?”

“I can’t play piano to save my own life. I think he’s great.” All he offers up is a shrug, but it’s not a rebuff.

“If you both recruit me won’t it give Clay more reasons to skip more often?”

“He can’t run away forever.”

That strikes a chord in George. He hadn’t thought about it that way; that Clay was running.

Running means scared.

Without a doubt, Wilbur had known what he said. George could already tell that he was too calculating to speak without thinking first, and that his choice in words were far from accidental.

“I…I guess I can stay?”

“Great! I would’ve hated having to break out the rope to keep you here. You’re officially a member of Criminals of the State. Now you can tell everyone you meet that you’re in a band, and you get a t-shirt for marketing reasons…”

He tunes out, and the looming emptiness of the drum set behind him gradually becomes more apparent.

Running means scared. Scared of what, exactly, George isn’t a hundred percent sure. Of him, of the past, of ruining everything, the future. But regardless, the connection has been made.

Clay is scared.

*

As George stares up at his popcorn ceiling, he tries to process the last couple days as well as adjust to his newly filled schedule. Between class and homework, he now has to make time to pick up piano again, enough to be prepared for a concert in less than two weeks. Combined with this is all the time he seems to be losing worrying himself over what to do about Clay- because that’s a problem, now- and he wants to stick his head in the dirt.

He’s never socializing again. This is it; this has proved exactly why he hates it. It somehow _fucks_ everything up. Without fail, other people always fuck everything up. They have feelings and they intervene with your plans and they make you join a garage band with you long lost friend. George isn’t sure how, but he knows he’s too far deep in…whatever he’s in now to back out.

His political science professor has ruined life as he knew it. That bastard and his midterm project.

Oh, the midterm project. How could he have forgotten? He and Sapnap hadn’t even started yet, not even as much as discussed what their plan of attack will be. At the rate things are going and the way his mind is spiraling, he figures they may never get to it at all. Even one or two days wasted is enough to drive George and his Type-A personality insane. Maybe it would be easier to do the whole thing himself and add Sapnap’s name at the end for credit.

Or maybe it would be easier to commit a double homicide. _Local Professor and Classics Student Found Deceased._ And that’d be the end of it.

George pulls his pillow over his face and yells into it. It’s pretty cathartic, actually, and he’s left red faced, slightly panting, Other people in the dorms make much more noise than that, so he isn’t too worried about it. When the silence becomes too much once more, he does it again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK BABY! twitter is @goldenareadbhar, feel free to @ me with any questions or fanart or anything u want!

The pain is the first thing George acknowledges when he cracks open his eyes. His head feels so incredibly heavy, its unlike anything he’s felt before. It was as though someone had taken a baseball bat to his temples until they got bored of it. There’s a weird taste in his mouth, and he needs _water._

Blinking into the filtered sunlight coming through the blinds, he takes inventory of his surroundings.

“Holy shit,” He breathes.

George’s body is on the floor of Wilbur and Clay’s living room. More specifically, the upper half of his body- his legs are up on the couch, that of which is missing a flattened cushion. Around him are a couple people he can’t say he recognizes intermixed with empty cans and bottles. Sweatshirts are thrown around carelessly, and his line of vision follows a pair of jeans, then underwear…gross. Carefully removing his legs from their leveraged position and bracing himself for the worst, he stands.

Oh yeah, it’s the worst.

He staggers over to the nearest wall, screwing his eyes shut. Moving quickly was a mistake as George’s stomach was doing _unimaginable_ things, but it was either that or fall back over. He notices that his shoes are missing and supposes he’ll find them later, hopefully. Inching along the wall he makes his way into the kitchen by force of sheer will, gently peeking into cabinets looking for a cup. The first one available is a pink one with little pandas all over it, and he drinks what feels like a gallon of metal-tinged sink water. George has never tasted anything better.

Instinctively his hand reaches towards the back pocket of his jeans for his phone. It’s met with nothing. He usually has his ringer on, so the first solution that comes to mind is to have someone call it so long as it isn’t dead. Or broken. _Please, don’t let it be broken._

As much as he doesn’t want to be alive right now, George picks his way back through the kitchen and sets off towards the bathroom, searching for help. He still can’t quite bring himself to separate from the wall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open, but before George can process anything a voice from within makes him startle.

“Good morning.”

He had no preconceived notion of what to expect when he went in, but it definitely wasn’t Wilbur sitting in the shower with a probably empty box of wine and his guitar.

Well, actually, on second thought, he wasn’t too terribly shocked.

“Morning, Wilbur. How long have you been up?”

“Haven’t slept.” His fingers absent mindedly dance along the strings, careful not to make too much noise. It’s out of tune.

George makes a sympathetic face. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m used to it, don’t worry. Once I puke a couple more times I’ll be up and raring to go.”

With that being said, before George even knows it, he’s doubled over in front of the porcelain. Wilbur not-so-gracefully crawls over and rubs the other’s back in solidarity.

“What- the fuck was that,” George pants, and another wave comes.

“You’ve been baptized into college, my boy, welcome. Now, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but do you remember what happened last night?”

George would’ve found that entertaining if he wasn’t turning green. As he gets well acquainted with the toilet, memories of last night begin to resurface in hazy pieces.

*

“You doin’ okay over there? Need any help?”

Sapnap looks down expectantly, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, yep, golden. Doing great. Never better.”

George curses under his breath as he tugs on a wire, the terrible cluster of the rest of them not budging. His hands are trembling.

Kneeling down next to him, Sapnap swats George’s hands away. With deft and experienced fingers, the mass of cords dissolves in just under a minute.

“The jitters will go away, don’t worry. Your first show is always the scariest. You’ll do fine, okay?”

“If you’re sure…and thanks for the help.”

“No problem.”

Sapnap winks as he stands up, leaving to go aide Wilbur with something.

The lights feel white hot on George’s skin and The Gaslight is bustling. There’s almost a tangible electricity in the air of anticipation and already-drunken adrenaline, despite it only being just past eight o’clock. Before the bar had filled it felt like there was too much room with its scattered high tables and tall ceilings, but as the crowd of of-age and surely underage college students filled in he began to understand the design choice. Everyone has on their Friday night best: shirts that dip down too far for subtlety, short skirts, expensive jackets, ripped pants. Cologne and perfume mingle above George’s head, and if he darts his tongue over his lips nervously, he can taste the combination. There’s no elevated stage, so he, Sapnap, Wilbur and Clay are putting everything together in the corner by the left end of the bar counter.

Oh, Clay.

As easy as that and with a flicker of bitterness, George’s eyes wander.

There he is, behind his drum set like the walls of a castle, looking out at the crowd with a visible swell in his chest. The sparkle in those eyes is prominent even from a few feet away. He’s wearing a tank top, torn jeans, and fingerless gloves; all of which are black, the only color being the vibrant green laces on his boots. If he moves just the right way the low-sewn arm holes of his shirt allow a peek at his chest, and anyone with taste would like what they saw. Earlier Sapnap had made a joke that one could tell what day of the week it was by how many of Clay’s freckles could be seen: there was no doubt that it was the weekend now.

Since their initial meeting a couple of weeks ago, any and all interactions have been painfully surface level. After a few days Clay had stopped ditching practice, most likely attributed to Wilbur’s threats, and the awkwardness and tension that were introduced could be cut through with a knife. Readjusting their already solid group dynamic for George and the way the two of them acted around each other was tricky, but for the most part they all made it work. It was tolerable…however.

Improvement has reached a frustrating plateau.

George didn’t particularly consider himself to be a fan of confrontation but knew sometimes it was a necessary evil. The elephant in the room between Clay and himself was something he so desperately wanted to pull the covers off of, and was becoming increasingly upset by; thoughts such as _why doesn’t Clay apologize? does he hate me after all? why won’t he just say something?_ have gnawed at him with consistency. He has never had a good track record with dreaming, or remembering his dreams at the very least, but lately he can’t seem to escape the past even while he sleeps.

Moving behind his- Wilbur’s, more accurately- keyboard, George turns a couple of dials. His left foot is tapping against the slightly sticky floor, and he tugs at the collar of his button up A fleeting thought streaks by about the heat in the room and how he’s glad that he chose against wearing a long sleeve.

“Alright, the lot of you. Listen up. Midterms are done, it’s the weekend, and we have an unholy amount of alcohol waiting for us at home. Is everyone ready?”

With the dignity of a general Wilbur shoulders his electric guitar, taking his place front and center in their ensemble. He meets eyes with all three of them, and a quick shot of adrenaline releases through George’s veins. When it’s his turn to be assessed, he swallows, but nods. His palms are sweating.

A wild grin overtakes Wilbur’s features before he turns to the mic.

“Good evening, everyone,” He starts, and cheers erupt from the crowd.

“As many of you know, we’re Criminals of the State. Glad to see some familiar faces tonight. And if you’re new here, then welcome. The afterparty is at 420 Rapids street: yes, that is the real address. Yes, we picked it on purpose.”

Someone somewhere that George can’t see turns the lights to red. He turns to glance at Clay, and Sapnap begins to pluck his bass.

“This one is called _Shadowplay_ \- we hope you enjoy.”

Muscle memory takes over. George faintly sees Wilbur’s orange pick flash as he strums, and the sound of drums that booms from over his shoulders startles him. There are two places where he falters in the introduction, and he prays that no one catches his mistakes. No amount of garage practice sessions could have prepared George for a well and true concert.

“ _Well I was moving through the silence without motion, waiting for you,_

_In a room without a window in the corner, I found truth.”_

As he scans over the faces bouncing around before them, he can’t pick out a single one that doesn’t look ecstatic, and just before the bridge Wilbur rolls out their introductions. How his fingers alternate over the frets of his guitar while he speaks is something George figures he won’t ever understand.

“I’m Wilbur, I keep these misfits in check. We’re so thankful for everyone turning up tonight. Can we get some noise for Sapnap on the bass?”

Noise they got. Drinks are raised, both bitter and bittersweet liquid sloshes out of glasses in support.

“This over here on keyboard is George, our newest stray. Pretty good for his first show, huh?”

The enthusiasm almost takes the breath from his lungs. For him, _him_ \- cheers stacked on top of one another, strangers rallying their voices all for _him_.

“Back here we have Dream on the drums- ladies and gentlemen, yes he’s single, but he’s more of a handful than you’d realize.”

A roar fills the building all the way up to the ceiling- it’s absolutely incomparable to anything George has heard in his life. It isn’t _tangibly_ there, but everyone can see that there’s a crown on Clay’s head.

“ _I did everything, everything I wanted to,  
I let them use you for their own ends,”_

Sapnap presses himself up to the mic and sings with Wilbur, a wolfish smile plastered on his face.

“ _To the center of the city in the night waiting for you,_

_To the center of the city in the night waiting for you.”_

With the way the both of them are moving around it’s a wonder that bandana and beanie respectively both manage to stay in place. He can’t do a whole lot, but George allows himself to move with the rhythm- just a little- in the space he’s been allotted. The music feels like a heartbeat, a vein that exists on a different plane of existence. It keeps the four of them connected, tightly bound, and loosely tangles itself in with their audience. It’s at this moment that George feels that he’s found his place, but he couldn’t have explained it in words if he were to be asked.

Their first number wraps up and Sapnap hits the final note. It’s warm and full, and it sets the tone for the rest of the show. Met with a fantastic reception, the lights turn pink as the note fades out.

“Our next number here is _Do I Wanna Know._ Have a good time with this one, too.”

*

By pure accident, George’s vision is swimming. He’s only about a red cup and a half into the afterparty, but whatever the mix was in the plastic bin he had spooned it from was horribly strong. He’s seated on the floor in a circle with Sapnap, Wilbur, and a couple of other people that were only introduced to him about an hour earlier. The alcohol is making his walls easier to lower, and so far their little offshoot group is having a great time. The house probably-almost-definitely shouldn’t be packed with this many people and the noise level will almost-surely warrant a complaint from neighbors at some point in the night, but George is hardly worried. Eagerly listening in to the story that a guy in a beanie that reads ‘LAFD’ on it- his name may or may not start with the letter Q- is telling, he laughs into the plastic which holds his drink.

“…And so we’re in the back seat and I’m going, ‘Sapnap, get your filthy little rascal hands off my Monster!’, then I look up as Karl slams on the breaks hard enough to send all the shit in the back seat with us from the store flying forward. Karl almost hit one of our other friends who jogs across the crosswalk and then he says, ‘sorry I almost hit you, I was listening to angry woman breakup country music!’”

“I wasn’t just- I had to apologize! I felt bad!”

George had forgotten the name of the purple sweatshirt to the right of Sapnap as well, but now it’s clear that it is Karl. His cheeks are flushed with intoxication as well as embarrassment, and the color on his face has LAFD rolling.

“It’s okay Karl, everybody makes mistakes. Almost committing homicide just happens to be a less common incident.” Karl drags his hands down his face, but there’s a trace of a grin when he pulls them away.

“Then, oh god,” LAFD wipes a tear away from his right eye, “then there was the time we were at this weird trailer party. Punz had been before but none of us had, Wilbur was there, too. We were all taking shots of tequila, the bottle was gone in like, ten minutes- it was amazing. Me and Punz lose the rest of them, so I go to look, and sweet Karl is on the toilet crying, Wilbur is trying to shield his eyes while someone none of us knew was throwing up in the sink. Wilbur is rubbing this poor kid’s back while trying not to puke himself, five minutes later I find Sapnap and he’s writing a bunch of shit on the fridge...”

“I thought I was using a dry erase marker, but it was sharpie. Oh yeah, it was sharpie.”

“We haven’t been back since, and I don’t think they found out who it was. Took us another three hours to get everyone’s ducks in a row to leave this damn place, we were so out of it. The next morning was the worst, I’m pretty sure we all woke up still kind of drunk. Hangover hashbrowns are untouchable, though. The food of the gods.”

George finishes off his second drink, licking away the taste of juice and vodka. “What..what was your name again?” He points to LAFD, the latter swiping a couple pieces of his dark bangs away from his eyes.

“Quackity, baby, the one and only.”

“Quackity…?”

“Yeah, ‘s there a problem?”

Blinking in denial, he now turns an accusatory finger to Sapnap. “Why do all of you have such weird names? Who names their kid Punz, too? Huh? There’s no way these are your real names. You’re all tricking me.”

Sapnap and Quackity exchange a look, then lose their minds. Karl takes hold of Sapnap’s drink while he rolls over laughing.

“No dude, we’re serious, why is that so hard to believe?”

Their laughter is contagious, and George falls apart with them. This goes on for several honey-sweet moments until he’s brought back to earth by another warm body nudging itself in beside him. Something is placed upon his head: a white, rounded pair of sunglasses.

“Look who decided to join us, the big man himself,” Wilbur raises his glass. “Where would we be without our sex appeal percussion god?”

“Don’t give his ego that much fuel, please, I don’t want to see him get up on the counter with his shirt off again.” Quackity’s face wrinkles with disgust.

George examines the glasses, shrugs, and puts them back on his head. “The crowd does love you. I feel weird knowing what you looked like as a little gross teenager.”

“Wait, you guys knew each other-?”

“It’s a long story, but yes,” Clay answers, nudging George with his left elbow. “I have an image to keep here and none of these losers need to know what I was like when I used to be a loser.”

Sapnap blows a raspberry at him across the circle. Karl takes a moment of thought, then does the same in support. Clay gives them the finger, grinning.

The television is playing an obscure psychosexual horror movie and screams float around above the chitchat. George stares at Clay, the way his eyes squint in humor, the way his freckles fall upon his cheeks like constellations, his eyes follow the sharp line of his jaw and the bump of his adams apple. With a fondness George has had yet to experience from Clay since they first collided the latter asks, “What are you staring at?”

His smile is radiant.

“A loser.”

Clay swirls the drink in his hand. He holds George’s gaze.

It’s the first time he hasn’t abruptly looked away and there’s so much warmth in his eyes, but it looks so distant and unreachable. The feeling is akin to looking at a smiling picture of youth, a moment lost in the past. Seconds tick by and they sit in silence.

“There’s so much I want to tell you about,” Clay finally speaks, “It’s been so long.”

“You could’ve told me anything this whole time and I would have listened. I would’ve listened to every word.”

Green eyes soften. The words they exchange are wrapped in tenderness, the kind that implies the privacy of something like pillow talk.

Now, Clay takes a very long drink. Guilt casts his attention to the floor.

“I know you would have.”

“You still can, you know.”

Even now, together and drunk in this circle on the floor, he’s still so far away.

Another drink. Bitter hurt and realization.

George only hesitates for a blink before snatching the cup away, downing it, and tossing it back over his shoulder. In his periphery he can see a few sets of eyes focusing on him. His stomach warms, and he knows very soon his head is going to feel even lighter and his conscience quieter. Whatever was in that cup felt like a kick in the teeth.

“If it’s your ego you’re trying to protect you can get so drunk you won’t remember this, and I can lie to you. Say you never spoke a word too me. That gasoline shit in your cup will get you there awfully quick, if you aren’t there already.”

_What am I saying?_

“Oh no,” Wilbur’s voice comes from…somewhere, but it may as well have been trying to reach the stage from the back row of a theatre.

Clay’s angular jaw sets itself tightly, eyebrows creasing. Words that would cut through the thickest skin sit like knives on his tongue, George can tell: alcohol has always been a touchy subject.

George abruptly stands, and his vision is delayed. The room is spinning.

“Hey, woah, dude, hold on! Where are you going?” Sapnap stands as well, faring far better. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine, I just need some air.”

Shooting up but also swaying, Clay rises from the floor as well.

“And you’re gonna get up and go after that? You never could take a hit, George. You’d always dish shit out that you couldn’t take and ask me for help sweeping up the fallout.”

“Guys, listen, this isn’t-“

Closing the gap between them, George glares up at Clay. He’s seeing red.

“It’s not my fault you’re acting like your dad. You’ve only looked at me and spoken to me properly drunk. You’re saying _I_ can’t take a hit when you can’t swallow the truth?”

Sapnap’s hand lands on his chest, the other on Clay’s. His mouth is moving but George can’t hear- he can’t even hear what Clay is spitting at him, but he knows it’s laced with venom. His face is hot, and his nails are digging into his palms. The room keeps spinning, it’s spinning, Quackity and Karl move into view, the ceiling light burns spots into his line of sight. He feels like he’s been pushed over.

He vomits.


End file.
